


To The Letter

by pauraque



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Consent Issues, Cross-Generation Relationship, Fanwork of Fanwork, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-07
Updated: 2004-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-28 05:15:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/304149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pauraque/pseuds/pauraque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snow shoveled, detention served, but Filch doesn't send him away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To The Letter

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Kindred Spirits](https://archiveofourown.org/works/43195) by [Delphi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi). 



> A sequel to Delphi's wonderful fic "Kindred Spirits". I can only hope I did it justice.
> 
> Thanks to Caesia for the excellent beta.

Peter's icy fingers hurt as he clasps his hands around the mug of hot cocoa, but he holds them there, wanting them to thaw. Filch locks the door, locks out the windblown snow and the dreadful chill of dusk. And he turns, looks at Peter. Seems to study him, eyes never still. There's something in his look that Peter can't put a name to, but it makes his snow-numb toes curl up inside his boots.

'It's all right,' Filch says after a moment. His voice is rough and swallowed-up, like he's not used to saying something kind. 'Drink up.'

Peter is suddenly aware that his mouth is hanging open, and he snaps it shut. He lifts the mug with both hands and sips. The chocolate's searing hot over his tongue, and after that there's a different kind of burn at the back of his throat, a sharp smell he didn't notice at first. He remembers the bottle of whiskey James nicked from the kitchens that one Christmas.

It warms Peter's insides, and he drinks again more deeply, letting the foam come up over his lip. He looks across the table at Filch's windowsill, dusty and lined with strange trinkets. A seashell. A rusty bell that looks like it came from a cat's collar. Peter can feel Filch's eyes on him all the time.

He places the mug down on the table and starts to say thank-you, or may-I-go-now, or maybe something else, but before he can get it out, Filch is standing beside him, over him.

'You've got—' Filch starts hoarsely, and then his hard, dry hand is on Peter's cheek, and his thumb gently passes over Peter's upper lip. Lingers there. Then he raises his hand to his own mouth, and licks off the bit of hot-cocoa foam. Peter sits very still, not sure what he's meant to do, not sure whether this is strange.

'Important to keep clean,' Filch says.

*

Filch's bed isn't as soft as the ones in the dormitory, and his sheets are old and pilled. Somehow he never thought about Filch having a bed. Peter is on his back, and Filch is lying propped up on his elbow beside him, undoing Peter's tie with one hand. Peter feels it slither round the back of his neck as Filch pulls it loose, and he shivers. Filch is looking at him the whole time, and this close, Peter can see all the wrinkles around his yellow-flecked eyes.

Filch rolls forward a bit to start working on the buttons of Peter's shirt, and Peter can feel that Filch has got a hard-on in his trousers, bumping warm and heavy against Peter's thigh.

'Don't worry, boy,' Filch murmurs, and strokes the front of Peter's shirt for a moment, like petting a cat.

It's funny having Filch all pressed up against him this way. His body is thin and sharp, and he's not really someone you're supposed to be this close to. He smells of dust and silver-polish, and in the quiet, Peter can hear the little wheeze at the end each time he breathes. Peter's palms are sweating; he rubs his fingertips over them.

When Filch gets Peter's shirt off, he touches him. His hard callused hand caresses over Peter's soft belly, and he jerks, ticklish. Filch grins a bit at that, teeth crooked and yellow. He tickles Peter deliberately then, fingertips scrabbling below Peter's belly-button; Peter lets out a little yelp of laughter and tries to squirm away, grabbing reflexively at Filch's hand. They wrestle briefly, and Filch laughs, a deep dry chuckle.

Filch stops and lets him catch his breath, and they're just looking at each other. Filch is breathing hard too, and his eyes are bright. Then Filch closes his eyes and slides his palm up to Peter's chest— with a flush of embarrassment, Peter wonders if Filch is imagining he's a girl— and rubs his thumb over Peter's soft pink nipple. Peter's breath catches and he arches his back; he touches himself like that while he wanks, sometimes, and he's getting stiff now, face growing warm again.

Then suddenly Filch is leaning up close and his mouth is on Peter's, the skin around his lips rough like sandpaper, and his tongue— slimy and strange. This is Peter's first kiss, and he was really starting to think he would never have one, that no-one would ever want him (that ache deep down when he sees James and Lily laughing arms around each other by the lake)— Peter kisses back desperately, not because he likes it but because he's supposed to, because it needs to be right. Filch's hand slides down as they kiss, over Peter's erection through his trousers.

'Ohmygod,' Peter squeaks into Filch's mouth, though he doesn't mean to. 'Please—'

Filch pulls back, a grin of surprise curling his wet, reddened lips. His eyes are gleaming. 'Well, well...' he says softly. 'Eager, are we?'

Their hands bump together as they both move to the buttons of Peter's trousers at the same time. Filch chuckles again, and pushes Peter's hand away.

'Lift up,' he says, nudging Peter's hip with his knuckles, and Peter obeys; Filch pulls his trousers and underpants down and off. Now that he's been out of the cold for a while, now that he's naked, Peter realises it isn't warm in here after all, and he shivers, getting gooseflesh.

Filch's gnarled hand pushes Peter's soft pale thighs apart and strokes his penis, hard against his belly. Peter grunts and wriggles— he's never felt a touch there but his own hand, and it's— he's not in control anymore, can't use just the right amount of pressure, the way he always does— Filch strokes him lightly, fingertips lingering to tease just under the head of his dick, grinning as he watches Peter writhe.

'Oh— please—!'

Peter can't help it, he reaches down to touch himself— and quick as a flash Filch is up on his knees and he's got both Peter's wrists clutched in one wiry hand. He pins Peter's arms up above his head, and Peter isn't fighting but he's never felt more naked, miles of soft skin all right there to be touched however Filch might want. Filch's face is half-shadowed and his hair hanging down in strings, and Peter's heart is pounding.

'Don't trouble yourself,' Filch says, trailing one knuckle up the side of Peter's aching erection, and it's sort of a growl but there's some kind of smile in his voice too. 'Allow me.'

'Ohgod,' comes trembling out of Peter's mouth without his meaning it to, and he twists his legs together, pulls at Filch's grip on his wrists.

Filch clucks his tongue and shakes his head, rubbing at the very tip of Peter's dick. 'Now, now... do as I say, lad. Don't want to have to muck up those manacles after you polished 'em up so pretty.'

Peter doesn't know if Filch is joking or not, doesn't know if he's more scared or excited, but he lies still and spreads his legs, staring and breathing open-mouthed. It's only then that Filch wraps his fingers around, presses hard at the base and rubs, and Peter twists hard and comes in Filch's hand and all over his own belly.

Peter shuts his eyes and breathes, Filch's palm warm around his dick as it softens.

Warm, wet breath in his ear: 'Good... good. Now we've got to make it perfect, boy.'

Peter opens his eyes, and Filch is taking off his trousers. Filch's cock is bigger than Peter's, dark and heavy-looking and veined. Peter is embarrassed by that, but excited too. Filch's hips are narrow and bony, and his legs are scattered with dark hair.

Filch pulls himself up to sit against the headboard, his cock bobbing stiffly as he moves. A spurt of anxiety in Peter's stomach— he doesn't know what he's meant to do.

'Come here. Just here.' Filch pats the mattress between his legs, and Peter crawls over obediently on hands and knees.

'Now...' Filch says, caressing Peter's hair, damp from sweat and melted snow. '...you're just going to take me in your mouth. Gentle. Wet your lips.' The same careful way he tells Peter how to polish the armour or shovel the snow. Doesn't leave things unsaid, doesn't give Peter a chance to feel stupid.

Peter does as he's told, and Filch's cock is heavy in his mouth and tastes of salt and something sharper, and there's a yeasty smell like bread.

'Use your tongue, now...' Filch says, and Peter can feel the vibration of his voice. 'Never your teeth. Yes...'

Peter does as he's told, and this is his second kiss, kissing the slick head of Filch's cock, sucking lightly and feeling the veins move under his tongue.

'Perfect,' Filch breathes. 'Just like that.' He rocks his hips forward and back, and Peter learns the rhythm. 'Look at you. So...' And Filch runs his palm over Peter's shoulder, over his back. 'You've got to swallow it when I come,' he says in a firmer voice. 'You—'

And then Filch stops talking and just groans and holds Peter's head, and starts pushing rougher into his mouth until he lets out a cry and pushes in so hard Peter chokes, mouth flooding with hot salt. And Peter does as he's told and swallows and swallows while Filch clutches his hair in his fist.

*

Filch sits on the bed and watches Peter as he gets dressed.

'You can come to me,' Filch says, voice rough again. Peter pauses and looks at him questioningly. 'Don't have to wait till you get a detention. You can come and visit me here, of a night.'

Peter nods quickly and stumbles over his good-byes, and goes back out into the cold.

*

It's late now; the castle is quiet as Peter goes up the tower steps, as he comes into the dormitory. He tip-toes past the three occupied beds, and into the bathroom.

Once the door is shut, he puts on the light and looks at himself in the mirror— hair messy and clothes dishevelled. Will they be able to tell? Will they smell it on him, his orgasm, Filch's skin?

He's never kept a secret from them before. But this isn't for them to know.

He smiles tentatively at his reflection.

Peter brushes his teeth and gets in the shower, scrubs hard under the near-scalding stream. It's important to keep clean, he thinks.


End file.
